Everyone Loves A Good Tsunami

Clips to the play-


1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rgx7rF8K1kk&mode=related&search=


2 http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7Ew_b2jE9c

Spoilers ahead-

Go watch it if you've missed it. It is every dollar- paisa wasool.

I have never been much of a play person. Or maybe I never moved in the right play circles. But curiosity,  here made me decide to watch it but on the tube.

Set in the San Francisco bay area in Dec. 2004-Jan.2005, this comic satire beautifully portrays the nuances of human emotions like rivalry, competitiveness, the need to feel important, and the urge to outsmart others. Dr.Sunil Ahuja is the president of the Indian Association who has been betrayed by Panjawani, the vice-president, who starts his own parallel desi group called the Indian Council and many members of the IA flock to IC, much to the dismay of Dr.Ahuja. Wanting to do better than the Republic Day Parade organized by the IC (rumored to have invited Amitabh Bachchan as the celebrity of the event), IA decides to organize a fund raising concert for the Tsunami victims (remember, it is set in Dec., 2004).

Ahuja leaves no stone unturned to make the concert more successful than the Republic Day parade. Jindal, his right hand and another surviving member of the IA, tries to invite every celebrity from Lata Mangeshkar to Sonu Nigam. Unfortunately, this far exceeds their budget. They think of bringing some lesser known singer, one of the winners of Sa Re Ga Ma at a much cheaper rate. However at the end, they make it into a local talent show with their own children performing (and his daughter Pinky winning the first prize in Piano as well). A very ambitious plan to actually bring a tsunami survivor on stage actually ends up in Sushma ji, another surviving member of the IA, giving a condolence speech. She is portrayed as the survivor who has suffered a deep trauma because 40 years ago, they had South Indian neighbors in Delhi and though she has no contacts with them, she assumes that the neighbors are dead or are victims of the tsunami. She thus deeply mourns the loss of the neighbors.

Oh, by the way, they take quite a while to argue over the name of the concert till they change it from Tsunami Hungama (hungama?) to Tsunami 2005. Eh, why not Tsunami Bumper Dhamaka then?

I loved the little touches here and there, like how Indu (Dr.Ahuja’swife) runs a women’s organization called Patita (alleged by Dr.Ahuja to consist of husband-hater women), the way his elder daughter Aarti from Stanford brings out a calendar of nude men and women with her friends to raise money for the victims, and how the pundit says that no one died in the tsunami because what we perceive as death is merely the soul changing bodies just like the body changes clothes (interesting !). When the newspaper reporter arrives, everyone forgets the cause and all are in their own worlds trying to gain publicity with their stories and wanting to be in the limelight of the group picture.

Panjawani finally arrives at the end, coaxing Dr.Ahuja to jointly form the Association of Indian Council (AIC) and together they pledge over whiskey that they will organize a Tsunami-concert every year, like Tsunami 2006, Tsunami 2007.

But will there be a tsunami next year?, Dr.Ahuja asks with whatever wisdom he has.

Arre tsunami nahin to kya hua, India mein har saal kuch na kuch to hota hi rehta hai. Based on that, we shall make the concert a huge success every year.

And thus they join hands once again. Who cares about raising money for the tsunami victims? It is the position of the president and all the publicity that comes along with it that drove these two men.

Beer before whisky? Very risky.

Whisky before beer? No fear.

I loved these lines of the play. Along with many more.

I know it wouldn’t make much sense unless you have seen it. SO PLEASE DO..
Great job everyone !!! And yeah, non-Seattleites, just watch out for the link posted here if the play comes up on youtube :).

Driving: instructor versus non-instructor

For weeks, I struggled with the idea of having an instructor versus a friend teach me drive. I could afford the former, and I had plenty of the latter. People had mixed opinions. Some baulked at how I could even think of coughing up $400 for 6 hours of training. Some felt it is a necessary skill done best with professional help. Of course there is this hesitancy of getting into a friends car and learn driving. I don’t think I would be comfortable if someone learnt driving on my car.


I wouldn’t have thought of a driving school if I was a student. But I wouldn’t have bought a car in the first place if I was a student. If I could afford a car, I could afford driving lessons too. A little bit of market research later, I had signed up for a driving school.

I think that was a great idea. It is like being taught at home versus being taught at school. Of course I hear that great men like Tagore were home-schooled. But if Tagore were to learn driving, I’d recommend he go to a driving school too.

First, you need to be with someone who is more confident and less scared than you are. I am talking about steering something at least a few tones heavy, in the right direction, and at the right speed. You might not end up head on colliding with another car, but even a minor dent or scratch caused by a small accident is best avoided.

The best thing I liked is that my instructor had his own set of brakes. So while for the first few hours I struggled with how to and how much to move the steering, stopping my vehicle during need was one less thing to care about.

My instructor talked to me non-stop. At first it was annoying that he should ask me how cakes were made in my home when I was struggling to juggle the various components of the car- steering, indicators, mirrors, brake, and accelerator. I was holding on to the steering tight, as if I was holding on to my woman. I was confused between brakes and the gas (accelerator). Every time I saw a car behind me, I felt mentally pressurized to do something. He calmly asked me to speed up if I saw a car behind me. I have never felt more helpless.

Eventually you get the hang of it. My instructor had more confidence in me than I did on myself. He encouraged me, challenged me, even pushed me. The first friend who started to teach me drive never let me hit the gas. The second friend almost curled up in a fetal position on the right most corner of the car, holding on to the door and his dear life while I drove. Their fears are understandable. But things didn’t work out.

2 classes with the instructor and I had graduated from residential buildings to little streets. I was braking, accelerating, indicating, yielding and parallel parking. I was backing around the curb. I was changing lanes. Freeway driving hadn’t happened yet, but it will not be long, I knew.

To cut a long story short, go to a driving school if you can afford it. It is expensive, but it is better than the tension I cause myself and my friends in the process of learning to drive. See it as an investment. No amount of parking lot driving can prepare you for driving on the main streets. I strongly recommend learning from an instructor rather than be a road hazard. I’d rather lose money than lose friends.

Tea Time Word Play

A: “After you have spent an entire Sunday doing home work, every other choice in life seems like a “reject” or a “fail to reject” decision!"


B: “But are you “confident” enough to take those decisions?”

A: “Well, should one make personal decisions based on statistical significance or a 95% confidence interval?”

B: “I think one must consider the T(ea)-value before any decision, especially when it is this cold. If there is no T, then there would be zzzzzzzz”

A: “Yes, the null hypothesis (Ho): [If not “t”, then “z”] shall have no alternative hypothesis (Ha). This is proven with 100% confidence, fully supported by the Ch(a)i square test”

P.S. B: "A word of caution though! Taking the Ch(a)i square test indiscriminately often leads to dangerously high p(ee)-values, which can cause you to fail the null hypothesis."

Graduate school can do a lot to your madness quotient.

The World of Secrets

I don’t understand much of technology, but an innovative idea of art always excites me. I don’t understand why I should trade my normal cell for an iphone when all I need a phone is for talking. That is how techgnorant I am. However I get very excited when I come across a blog that is different,or a particular way something is sketched, or discover a certain book written differently. When I discovered Eve Ensler’s Vagina Monologues, I was amazed at the way the book was conceptualized, although I browsed the e-version. Last week something similar happened. I discovered a website called postsecret.com. Ever since, I have been hooked to it. As I read all of it, I wondered why I did not think of such an idea before. It is so very simple, yet so empowering.


Ever felt you are surrounded with secrets that haunt you? Secrets that you think no one should know, yet you are eager to share? Secrets of a hurtful childhood? Memories of the first kiss? Maybe the first time you did something mean to someone? Broke a flower vase? Harassed the neighbors? Stole something for fun? Did something otherwise considered taboo? Had voices in your head tell you something inappropriate? Wanted to say to your scatterbrained teacher what you thought of him/her? You get the point, right?

The idea is simple. Write down your secret in a postcard. Decorate it the way you want it to. Mail it to an address in Maryland, and it will get published. While you remain anonymous, your secret is out there for the world to read. The idea thrilled me. I made a mental note and came up with so many secrets I would want to share anonymously. Why do I hate this and this. Why do I like such and such thing. What do I think of you. What I don’t think of you. It’s so liberating and empowering, writing down your secret out in the open for you to read, and remain anonymous while the world reads it. It seems they have a couple of books published with people’s secrets in them. I immediately checked the book catalog at the library and got hold of their first book. It was more of a pictorial book with picture postcards and their secrets published. I could not put down the book till I finished it, homework and assignments be darned. I had finished the book in one evening. Ever since, I have been sniffing to get my hand on the other books.

I love that it is something so simple, yet so empowering and healing. I cannot tell about you, but I am definitely going to have fun reading others secrets. And no, I am still not telling you my secrets. But for the fact that I love listening to cheesy double entendre Bhojpuri songs while no one is looking.

If ONLY I could ….

It started when a friend’s friend’s friend posted an album captioned, “Only my baby”. Knowing how the biological processes of reproduction work (unless you are an asexually reproducing amoeba or a hermaphrodite earthworm), I was not sure if babies could be made singlehandedly. Ideally, I should have forgotten about it and moved on, but the junk folder in my brain (which strangely occupies a large disc space) kept playing with the combination of semantics intended. Only my baby? My only baby? My baby only? I realized how the meaning changed each time I repositioned the word “only”. That is when realization struck. Of course using the word “only” out of place is a practice followed by so many of us “Indian English” speaking people who first think in our native language, and then translate it in our heads. This is “only” to emphasize the meaning all the more and hence add only, which, far from emphasizing anything at all, only screws up the meaning left and right. For the next few days, I kept an ear on what I heard from people speaking “Indian English”, and my realization seemed so profound.


“You are leaving now only?” Not only was it a question that uniquely started with “You are” (and not “are you”), the person, in order to intensify the meaning, added an “only” to stress on the urgency. Ekhono I jachcho? Abhi ja rahe ho kya? Obika jauchu? You are leaving now only? Made perfect sense.

The friend, in an attempt to show how much she loved the other friend and how similar they were, ended up saying, “I am like you only”. He called her wondering where they were and she told him urgently, “We are at home only”. They were in a bitchfest, bitching about every random thing when she emphasized her point and said, “Those people are like that only”. The last time someone told me, “I will marry you only”, I had quickly replied saying, “But I will not marry you only”. I don’t know if he thought I intended to marry multiple people, or I was simply turning him down, but you do realize wrong and inappropriate English usage is a big turnoff for me, no matter how noble your intentions of bonding are. The good part is, all the emotions captured in these statements could be suitably delivered without the use of the word “only” after every line. The bad part is, not many of us consciously realize that. What to do, we are like that only. But the great part is, it makes reading random Facebook conversations so hilarious.

Did I tell you that I was shocked to hear one of our senior teachers say, “If you boys don’t work hard, you will remain like this only”. I was disappointed. And “only” is not the only word we use wrongly. Remember the last time you were introduced at someone’s party as someone else’s cousin (and not cousin)? Especially remember how the word cousin was enunciated as “kaa-sin”? Remember when someone asked you, “Will you go no?” (Tum jaoge na?). I know I am not supposed to make fun of such people, but I am not making fun of people. I am just making profound observations. What to do, I am like that only.

Sniff

The Suburban screeches to a halt, tyres squealing, black clouds of rubber rising with the dust. Four pairs of spindly, hairy legs emerge, four dirty thobes, four ridiculous sticks, four long straggly beards that have never ever known the scented seductiveness of shampoo, deep inside which are the small dried-up memories of meals long forgotten.


But enough of the niceties. There's men's work to be done. The Commission for Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice are on a mission. To Promote Virtue. But before that can be done, all Vice must be Prevented. And there's serious Vice on the streets .

What can it be? A Pakistani woman walking along the road with three strands of hair showing? In the mall, a Saudi family lingering in the food court during prayer time? A lonely Barbie Doll, pining for her Ken in the dusty corner of a shop at the tatty end of the Kuwaiti Suuq?


No. The truth is far more Sinful than that. So dark a Sin, it hardly dares speak its name. But that name is.....

Snuff

Yes, snuff!

Snuff, as in "Snuff Movie"? Like those grainy 30-second Afghan and Iraq .mpg's that the Imam University sickos like to watch and email to their friends, some poor soul having his head chopped off by a Muslim crazy with a sword?


No, worse than that!

But what could possibly be worse than that?

Snuff. Dried, powdered tobacco. You sniff it up your nose. Makes you sneeze.

Ah, that snuff! I see the problem!

Officials of the Commission for Promotion of Virtue and Prevention of Vice apprehended several Arab expatriates who reportedly manufactured and sold shemah (a snufflike substance which contains various ingredients) in the Al-Otaibiya district of Makkah.

The officials also seized more than two tons of the contraband from a secret manufacturing center in the city.

Now before you ask me why the Religious Police are going out and confiscating snuff, I haven't a clue. Although in this case, there were.......several schoolboys carrying pouches containing a substance for sniffing....

 ....I don't know what the fundamental problem is. Kids shouldn't be buying it, any more than they should be buying cigarettes. It is a nicotine product, after all. But snuff is widely available for sale to adults throughout the world, especially posh tobacconists in England. And anyway, why the Religious Police?


I have four possible theories.

One. Some Prince has noticed that it's being manufactured in industrial quantities - two tons ready for distribution - and so wants to take over the action for himself.

Two. It's a Muttawa kneejerk. "Sin may be Fun, but Fun is definitely a sin".

Three. Our halitosic friends have just discovered this latest substitute for female company, and have decided to get a stash in to keep at Mutt HQ, alongside all the confiscated booze and porn.

Glug - glug. Uuurrpprr. Hey Ahmed, look at this one! Look at the overhang on her! You don't get many of those in half a kilo! Sniff........Aasschhoooo! Glug.

Four. (And this is the least likely). There is actually a religious prohibition on snuff. Now, the lads in Makkah 1400 years ago weren't exactly a bundle of fun, and once they got going on the polytheists and whores and sinners they turned the Arabian version of Las Vegas into the Arabian version of Amish country. But they didn't manage to prohibit things that had not yet been discovered or invented. So, to my knowledge, there is nothing in the Quran or Hadiths to prevent us sticking powder up our nose, except during Ramadan of course.

In fact, I'm so certain of that, I'll send a tin of the finest Friborg & Treyer Santo Domingo Snuff to anyone who can demonstrate otherwise!

My First Love

We never forget our first love. I was reminded of that, on a day when the Saudi press was relatively quiet. Not a lot was happening. Not even an unctious story about thirty royal hangers-on saying farewell to the King as he was driven all the fifty miles from Makkah to Jeddah with a bag of candy and his favorite comic.


Work attitudes are seemingly shifting in the Kingdom with many companies that previously sought competencies in English and computer literacy preferring nonsmoking workers over smokers, according to a report published by Asharq Al-Awsat newspaper. Job seekers need to brace themselves in ticking the nonsmoking boxes in job applications.


Islamic Ruling on Smoking

It has become abundantly clear that, sooner or later, smoking, in whichever form and by whichever means, causes extensive health and financial damage to smokers. It is also the cause of a variety of diseases. Consequently, and on this evidence alone, smoking would be forbidden and should in no way be practiced by Muslims. Furthermore, the obligation to preserve one's health and wealth, as well as that of society as a whole, and medical evidence now available on the dangers of smoking, further support this view.

Not snuff, of course, but near enough. And my mind started to drift away, as it can do at the weekend, to a distant time when I was much younger. To a time when, as the Craig Douglas song should have said:

I was only sixteen, only sixteen

I loved her so

But I was too young to fall in love

And she was too old, I know

So who was she, and why was this love forbidden for one of my tender years?


Let us begin with her title. Definitely not Miss, because she had been "round the track a few times", and then some. Not Mrs, because that conjures up notions of domestic responsibility, definitely not her. And Ms always brings to my mind ambitious female accountants in power suits. No, we have to travel abroad. Apologies to all respectably-married Francophones out there, but for the rest of us, this title is synonymous with Gallic naughtiness - Madame. But Madame who?

I was first introduced to Madame Nicotine by a schoolfriend. As I said, she "put herself about". And for a sixteen-year-old in search of excitement and experience, she seemed to be the answer to my adolescent prayers. I remember the first time as though it were only yesterday. It took place in a dark and secluded corner, of course. But I will never forget the excitement as she first brushed my lips, her taste as she entered my mouth....


And then afterwards. The exhilaration. The guilt. The nausea. I decided there and then, that this was a dangerous lady, once was enough, no more.

And so it was for a few weeks. Then we met again, and I succumbed again. "But no problem", I thought to myself, "I can take her or leave her". So I left her. But some weeks later, I took her once more. And so it went on, and each time she grew on me just a little bit more. Less nausea, more excitement, more satisfaction.

Until the day came that I realized we were inseparable. We were meant for each other, and I was her willing slave. I began to spend more and more on her, because she didn't come cheap. Parents would warn me against her, say she was bad for me, but I didn't care, I would flaunt our relationship, deliberately parade her in public. As a student, I would often spend money on her instead of food, because when I was with her, I no longer felt hunger. She became a part of my every waking moment.

I left college and started earning money, which of course I spent on her. We couldn't get enough of each other. We would consummate our relationship twenty times a day. Sometimes it would be eager, greedy, I would snatch gratification from her selfishly. Other times it would be gentle, relaxed, we would luxuriate in the quiet enjoyment of each other. Often, though, I would just take her for granted, my hand reaching out for her unconsciously, taking her while my mind was on other things. But she didn't mind, as long as I kept spoiling her with my money.


When I married, she became part of a ménage à trois. I felt guilty, of course, that she was taking money that should have gone into the marriage, into the home. When our children arrived, I was even more guilty. Suspecting that she might harm them, we confined our meetings to the garage, the garden, furtive once more. Who would want their own children to fall for Mme. Nicotine's charms when they grew up?

Many times I tried to give her up. I told her so. She just laughed in my face. She knew my weaknesses only too well. And of course I couldn't live without her. Before long, I would come crawling back. She always took me back, for sure, but not without making me feel inadequate, humiliated. She always knew how to humiliate me. How many times, discovering late at night that she was no longer there, did I wander the streets searching for a place where I might find her? Or, being somewhere where she was not allowed, how often did she entice me outside, for a quick and sordid liason in the pouring rain?

Finally I decided "Enough is enough". She was bad for my health, bad for my pocket, her scent covered me and told of our shameful relationship to the world at large. I announced to her that we were finished. How did she react? Just like that scene in "Fatal Attraction", where Glenn Close says "That's alright with me, if you want us to split up. We've had our fun, you more than me, but now your wife deserves to have you all the time. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine on my own. It'll be a good chance to learn cross-stitch. Give my love to the rabbits!"

As if. "Hell hath no fury". Cruella de Ville on steroids. "You'll never leave me", she spat out in rage, "you are weak and puny and have no will power at all. You won't believe how much I'll make you suffer!"


She was right. Those first few weeks were a living hell. I don't know what stopped me going back to her. In desperation I flung myself into the arms of Miss Mint. She was a sweet thing, sure enough, and for a few brief moments she could take my mind off Mme Nicotine, but she didn't have the personality, the depth, or the sheer naughtiness of my former lover to make it a lasting relationship. And I think she always knew that, that when she had served my selfish needs, I would throw her away like a candy wrapper into a trash can. Men are like that. But she fulfilled her purpose, and finally I was free. That was a while ago. Time has been hard on Mme Nicotine. Once the companion of royalty and film stars, she is no longer welcome in her former haunts, at the movies or around the dinner table. Time has also altered my memories, and I just remember her as dirty, smelly, her hand forever in my wallet.


Occasionally I see her again, in the distance, in a cafe or bar, and she gives me a look of sad reproach. For a very brief moment, I remember our good times together, that first time she brushed my lips.

I sometimes agree with Mme Nicotine's fellow-countryman, Marcel Proust, when he said:, "There is no man, however wise, who has not at some period of his youth said things, or lived in a way the consciousness of which is so unpleasant to him in later life that he would gladly, if he could, expunge it from his memory".

But then, if we expunge the memory of our first love, what else is worth remembering?